


White Party

by sparklebitca



Category: NSYNC, Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklebitca/pseuds/sparklebitca
Summary: Uh, Chris Kirkpatrick and Brian Kinney hook up at a regional White Party in Dallas?





	White Party

**Author's Note:**

> written around 2004. Chris's then-band played a gig in Dallas in 2004-ish. Idk, it must have made sense at the time.

"Buy you a drink?" The voice is smooth and casually disinterested - actually, like, for real, not that interested, Chris thinks, and that's still such a fucking rarity that he turns around to see who's offering.

 

__

 

Less than an hour later, he's getting the best fuck he's ever had, and that's saying something, because he's been done by Justin Fucking Timberlake, which is nothing to scoff at. Nothing. Seriously.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he finds himself panting, and what the fuck, he doesn't pant. He doesn't even bottom, not usually, Jesus. But this guy. This guy. All lean and dark, with this look in his eye that makes Chris shiver all over, like he knows what Chris wants, like he knows what Chris needs, like he doesn't give a shit unless it's what he wants and needs too. And that's something new. And new is definitely good.

The guy's name is Brian, he caught it in passing, and he knows he gave his own name, just like he knows Brian doesn't have a fucking clue who he is. Also good. Even though that's not so much an issue these days, to his combined delight and dismay.

Tonight, though, God. How glad is he that he didn't end up cancelling like he thought he might? So great, so fucking great, it played out better than he could have hoped for, he takes back every nasty thought he ever had about psycho fans. 'Cause you'd have to be psycho to come out here for that little pseudo-set, but it's the kind of psycho he can definitely get behind, 'cause the high he's on, he hasn't felt that in the longest fucking time.

It was the high that got him out here, to Dallas' version of the White Party, even though he's never been to one before. Lance's been to a couple, the real ones, South Beach and Palm Springs. So Chris has been curious. And he saw the flyer, and he saw it was tonight, and he was feeling good, that want-to-dance-and-maybe-do-some-E kind of good, so here he is. Bang. Literally.

A particularly deep thrust makes his thoughts start spinning counter-clockwise in his head, pulling him away from the show, pulling him into here and now and Jesus, yes, that's the fucking spot, right there, fuck. The guy, Brian, his hand is pressed against Chris' spine, and Chris is really digging on the pressure, the holding-down part, and whoa, again, weird with that.

He had only danced with Brian briefly, because the guy's sharply gorgeous in a JC kind of way, and every eye was on them in there, and he doesn't think it was because of the fine Kirkpatrick ass. Which Brian is finding plenty fine, going off the pleasedly rhythmic grunts from up behind him. Oh, god, good rhythm, hell yeah, man. But yeah, not the greatest dancer. And you'd think with those hips, dancing would be like breathing.

But apparently, for Brian, it's fucking that's like breathing, and let's stay focused on the fucking for just a minute, Chris thinks dizzily, because he's had more hotel room sex than he cares to remember, but he's pretty damn sure it's never been like this, on all fours with miles of lean muscle behind him, every inch of skin that's pressed against him on fire.

"You're . . . oh jesus . . . " he gasps, and Brian's short laugh floats over his back.

"Been called that before," and his voice is rich, rolling like waves of neon light as he slides his hand down the sweat of Chris' torso, " 'sthat why you're turning the other cheek?" and fuck if he doesn't slap Chris' ass, sharp stinging flat of his palm brings a choked hiss out of Chris' throat before Brian chuckles again and grasps long fingers around Chris' hip, forcing him into a different angle.

And that's fast and hard, and whoa, fuck, deep, fucking motherfucking deep, and it pushes Chris down onto a forearm, just one because he needs the other hand on his cock right the fuck now. The angle is bad, his skin is sticky and it's all squished and tight, his thighs close to his stomach close to the bed, but there, god, and he's jacking off in time to Brian's thrusts, the slam and the slide, and the blood pounding in his ears echoes the throbbing pulses of the music that's still running through his brain.

White Party, men in white, music white and high and you can see it if you squeeze your eyes shut like Chris does, fucking white light crackling through the darkness, dancing and music, shit, music and fucking, what life's all about, fuck yeah, good fucking life, oh shit, oh shit, and he hears Brian say it too, and in the second before he comes, he thinks again how glad he is that he didn't cancel that show, and this has nothing to do with that, it's just all fucking goodness, so good, oh yes.

 

__

 

Afterwards, he's relaxed and liquid, and his ass is sore, and he's sharing a joint with Brian. The guy's fully uncommunicative, and Chris is somewhat startled to find that the continued lack of interest is still refreshing post-fuck, which is when he normally gets clingy and insecure, if that's gonna happen. Good thing it's not, though, because getting attached to some dude in Dallas is really, really, really not the way he plans on finishing out hiatus.

When Brian kicks him out of the room twenty minutes later, he walks down the hallway humming to himself about porn stars and thinking about the joys of relative anonymity, and basically grooving on the whole night, because yeah, it wasn't half-bad, all told, not at all.


End file.
